He studied the lines of canes that hung above the solid Jacobean drawers. In them, he knew, were paddles and straps and all manner of tools for his trade. The furniture had been darkened with age until it was black with authority. He ran a finger along its curves in appreciation, an echo of more appreciated shapes.

Bottoms came in all shapes and sizes and in his mind there was an endless parade of gut-crunching beauty for him to appreciate. Shape was more important than size, but curves that suited one woman would never do for another, they were all unique. In any case he had never met a woman who did not think her bum was too big.

It was folly really, when he was in the business of taking girls down in size in order to make them grow and swell; sometimes literally. A harsh game but someone had to play and there was no shortage of players.

He was not a young man, not anymore; well it came to us all in the end. But neither was he old. He stood straight and firm without the niggling complaints that tormented his contemporaries; a consequence perhaps of years of working out and always taking the stairs. Nevertheless, his hair was thinning, but only a little, but it was whiter now than the rugged dark of his youth, rendering it grey.

He considered again the 17^th century furniture that held his little tools. It was a craftsman’s piece rather than a finery for a noble house. It had been perhaps ordered by a yeoman farmer for some corner of his room. He liked that. It was used as it was intended with a job in mind and was not some pretty-pretty for visitors to gawp at before they moved on to admire the antique Belgium drapery.

He smiled at the thought and then looked back at the canes. His visitor would be here soon as she had been before. Did she ever notice his acquisition, he wondered? Or was she more concerned with what was in it and what they would do?

It never occurred to him that for her it began and ended with her mentor.

*

She stood at the end of the lane where the tarmac met the more rugged unadopted road. Behind her the field of rapeseed glowed so brightly yellow that it hurt her eyes to look and she even shed a tear. The scent of it was sweet and heavy in the air, a marked contrast to the immature green buds in the field that ran alongside the lane.

His house, here she smiled at the secret pretence, his house was at the end, just one of three down the track, separated from the others by a good 30 feet and a stand of silver birch. It was an old brick affair with dull yellow London brick details around the doors and windows. It stood high and gothic like a castle and although not sinister, she felt sick with nerves as she hung back working up the courage. It was ever thus.

Not that she was a kid in the first year of her explorations. She had been on this road for 10 years or more and was now nearer 40 than 30. Still beautiful she hoped, but her thick red locks were occasionally chemically assisted and her figure tending to be fuller than she liked. She was certain that her bottom was too big and wore carefully chosen cute patterned skirts as obfuscation.

It was her needs that troubled her, great overwhelming desires that she could no more live without than she could turn into a man. But she was who she was.

It wasn’t that she liked spanking or being spanked. She hated it. Her fear of punishment was hard like the knot in her tummy and almost as strong as her wide-eyed need. But that was just it, she needed it with a passion. But not today, not when she didn’t know what he might do.

Worst of all was the cane. The sight and sound of it made her tremble. The hard scrape of wood on wood as he picked up from the desk reminded her of the dentist drill. The swoosh thwack sound it made as he cut the air. The crack across her behind was louder but by then she was overwhelmed by sharp biting pain that overrode all else. Then came the indelible lines that could be felt for sometimes weeks and left her unable to sit down properly for a day or two after.

But at least the cane was honest. It announced itself boldly and a girl always knew where it had been. It brought with it a sharp clear pain that could clear the head. Not like the birch. That seemingly feeble bundle of rods clattered like old bones and when it struck it tingled all over imparting a gentle sting. But each tingling assault grew hotter until a girl was taken by surprise. Just as she thought it couldn’t get any worse the fire really took hold and then she would do anything to make it stop.

The texture on her bottom in its wake was always interesting. The chaffed sore skin had an after burn like nothing else and where the cane left reluctance at sitting, the birch stole chair privileges for the duration, and that could be days.

The birch however was not as bad as the strap. The hard baked leather meant business from the start, imparting a heavy sting to take breath away. And that was just for an opening. No a dozen blows into a good strapping and she was sobbing that she would be a good girl.

The aftermath was a glory too. Deep red leathery welts clung to the curves of her bottom like giant Nicorette patches that were all itchy and sore. The blisters were hard and spikey to the touch with an undercurrent of deep seated soreness she could feel for days.

The strap could be made worse still if he used the rough side like sack-cloth canvas or one of his sandpaper specials. She had to be a very naughty girl indeed for such treatment. She shuddered.

Then there was the paddle. The dull hard relentlessness was endurance itself. Both sting and ache during and deep ‘never sit down again’ bruises for a long, long time afterwards. Such interesting colours too.

A naughty girl she wasn’t, she didn’t dare be. Once or twice when she had been, he had used a combination of two or more corrective techniques. After the cane on a strapped or paddled bottom he owned her.

Throw in a birch session in between for added texture and she would contemplate her never used safe word and pray that she never see him again; a resolve that lasted hours sometimes.

But there were so many sanctions and punishments to contend with. A humble over the knee spanking could be very effective. Beyond the sting, which could be imparted over a very long time, then there was the embarrassment factor. A grown woman could really be taken down a peg or two by a simple hand-spanking; especially when it was coupled with corner time.

The thrill of shame and submission was a complex matter.

She remembered reading about a girl who had sought out a mentor in her college years. This young woman would beg to be given dozens of cane strokes rather than get a spanking in front of her mentor’s friends.

That girl said that being bare bottomed in the corner after a spanking while men commented on her punishment was right at the edge of her endurance. Yet still this woman went back for more.

She knew too that such things were not for everyone, not even those who sought out such a guiding hand. For her it was about him and what he could do to her. But she procrastinated and he would not tolerate that.

The lane was still now and she looked up the track to the house. The scent of late spring was almost cloying and in that moment she thought that she would remember it forever. But he was waiting.

*

Her face held a permanent startle as she looked around the room. The canes had been polished and there were two taws on the desk. At least there was no paddle yet and no evidence at all of a birch rod. She looked into the corner to double check, everywhere in fact but right at him.

He regarded her like a work of art as he tried to compose himself. The secret was to remember that she was a being with her own needs, but to never to quite let her know that she was the focus of his every motive. She had to be off-guard never knowing what he might do or what she might have to endure. For this there was trust between them developed over many years.

“You look nice today,” he said with a warm smile.

She blinked.

“It is a pity that I have to ask you to remove your skirt and take your knickers down,” he continued, the smile instantly vanishing.

She blanched and clutched at her throat. He had said such things before, but they never failed to shock her. But still she fought back; just a little.

“I am not wearing any knickers,” she said boldly.

“And who told you to do that?” he asked, his voice sharp with an edge.

“I…” she was off-guard again.

“You will be punished for that,” he told her.

She blushed and looked at the floor.

“Well?” he barked.

She jumped and hastily scrabbled to remove the clothing he had specified. Then once she was naked below the waist and shyly cupping her sex he sat down in his padded leather armless chair and began appraising her again. She couldn’t quite meet his eyes and made girlish kissy pouts out of the side of her mouth.

“The strap before the cane today I think,” he mused aloud, “But that will take a while.”

She sighed heavily as she struggled to keep her breath even. But her mouth was open like a jogger who quailed before a marathon.

“Don’t worry, we have time,” he said reassuringly. “I might even add something extra for your outrageous lack of underwear.”

She visible gulped; her eyes suddenly wide.

“But I thought…” she stopped herself lest he decide she was questioning him. She had thought the cane and strap combination was her punishment for not wearing her knickers.

“Don’t think,” he snapped, “When was the last time I put you over my knee for a good spanking?”

“Eh…?” she was off-balance now.

In a moment her bare bottom was a dome over his lap and smoothed out her skin.

“Rose pink with my hand and then a nice cherry red with a hairbrush,” he muttered as if choosing from a menu.

She blinked rapidly but the spanking had already begun. Crisp smacks where the sting in her bottom met the burn of his hand.

“No rush, no rush,” he drawled adding a volley of spanks.

From her head down position she could see that there was some dust on the skirting board. She would have to see about that tomorrow, she thought, but then he began to spank her with a will and she was lost again.